


Nihilism and Alcohol

by Taupefox59



Category: Being Human (UK), The Almighty Johnsons
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Drug Abuse, M/M, Murder-Suicide, Suicidal Thoughts, dark!fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-24
Updated: 2016-04-24
Packaged: 2018-06-05 13:16:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6705853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taupefox59/pseuds/Taupefox59
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The gods have ascended and Anders is running in the only way he knows how.</p><p>Mitchell is coming off the Boxcar 20 incident, and he's running too.</p><p> </p><p>Sometimes, chance meetings mean bad things for everyone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nihilism and Alcohol

**Author's Note:**

> The actual title of this fic is 'Socrates Died in the Fucking Gutter' from the Parquet Courts song "[Master of my Craft](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6UFzde_Y_t0) '' - but I do try to keep swearing out of the actual *titles* here on AO3...
> 
> Un-beta'd, so if you catch anything, please let me know! Con/Crit always appreciated!

 

Anders was drinking. Anders was always drinking. He’d done a couple of lines earlier, taken some pills off someone, he wasn’t really sure what they were. All he knew was that his pulse was racing, and he was too hot in his clothes. The feeling of his shirt on his skin felt magnified, every bump of the weave of the cloth was pressing into him. It was like if every tiny wave of the sea had been captured and forced into textile. He was wound in it, caught up in it, completely encased in it. Anders didn’t know if he wanted it to be closer or if he wanted to be free of it. 

He picked up his cup, feeling entirely disconcerted by the unnaturally smooth feeling of the shiny red plastic beneath his fingertips. Cherry red. Cherry red and white, just like lipstick smeared around his cock. He used to be able to talk anyone even slightly willing into following him into the toilets for a quickie. It was all gone. He downed the end of whatever it was that had been in the cup. Gone like the drink, and now it was all just empty, and fake and plastic.

He laughed even though nothing was funny. He could feel it rumbling through his chest, but it wasn’t loud enough to be heard over the unrelenting, pounding noise of the music filling the room. Just like him. He could talk for hours and it wouldn’t mean anything. Whether he tried or not made no difference. The Din of the world swallowed up everything. Careful syllables, planned for their power, made no difference at all to a world already too filled with noise. Sloppy words, shouted as loud as he could until his throat bled, they only seemed to echo back to him; pitiful looks of people who never once expected more from him.

How sad. Anders the fuck-up who never really got it. Never did figure it out. He could fake it for a time, but when left to himself, when left to be *real*? No, poor Anders. He was never cut out for that life anyway. 

The scornful derision. If he hadn’t cut so many corners, he wouldn’t be falling now. If only he had been better, if only he had done better. Instead he’d wasted his life, and was it really any surprise that he’d come to this?

No. No, Anders was doing the two things he couldn’t be counted on to do: thinking with his dick and making bad decisions.

Anders grabbed another plastic cup that was filled nearly to the brim with something, and he took a few gulps from it. After all, if he couldn’t do anything else right, the one thing he could do was fulfill fucking expectations.

The floor was pulsing, curving in and out just like the ocean tide of his clothes. Anders had never been good at traveling by sea. Not that he’d ever had much of a chance to find out. He wasn’t welcome at home, but he sure as hell hadn’t been welcome to leave.

He stumbled and ran into a wall of bad hair and black leather. Anders ran his fingers along the sleeves of the jacket that caught him. It was different than his own. Made sense though. Leather wasn’t an ocean. Leather was skin. Fucking flesh of some dead animal, turned into a fashion statement.

Anders laughed again. ‘I should be a jacket.’ He said, not expecting a reply. He’d gotten used to talking to himself.

‘What was that?’

Anders blinked. The jacket - no. Man. There was a man *in* the jacket, was talking? To him?

‘Look, you okay, mate?’

‘Irish.’ Anders said, nodding, and letting his head flop on his neck just for the spinning feel of it.

‘Er. Mitchell.’ The man said. ‘You seem like you’ve maybe had enough.’ He reached to take the plastic cup from Anders’ hand.

‘Had enough?’ Anders laughed bitterly. ‘Haven’t we all?’ The floor was moving again and it tipped him into the Jacket’s chest. Irish jacket.

‘Look. I can’t - You shouldn’t...I’m going to go get someone for you.’

Anders hummed happily. The Irish jacket was rumbly and cool. It was nice.

‘I don’t need anyone.’ Anders said.

‘You can’t stay with me.’ 

Irish Jacket was trying to push him away. At least he was honest about it. ‘Can’t stay anywhere.’ Anders agreed. He nodded again, but this time the swooping turned into vertigo and settled poorly. Anders could feel the  bile rising in his throat. ‘Doesn’t matter.’ He dragged his fingers along the black leather and up. 

Black leather, black hair, black eyes. Black eyes that were the perfect shade of dark. All-over black eyes. Dark like the ocean at night black eyes. Anders reached up and pulled the man closer. He wanted to see. Void eyes that swallowed any hint of light. Anders laughed. Another thing that was just like him. Nothing ever stayed, nothing ever got out. Even when he tried, even when he’d changed. It still hadn’t done anything. Helen had still died, everything had still been his fault. Another problem he couldn’t get out of. ‘I want to die.’ He said, casually. 

It was true. It was true in the way that he had keys in his pocket and a drink in his hand. 

Irish Jacket growled. He smelled like copper. ‘You don’t want to tell me that.’

‘It doesn’t matter.’ Anders said. ‘Nothing does.’

‘If you want to die, I can make that happen.’ The words were slurred. 

Anders frowned and peered up at the face in front of him. ‘You have fangs.’ He reached up to touch them, hissing when he cut his finger on one of the elongated canines. Anders was about to pull his finger back when he realized it was firmly caught in teeth. He giggled. ‘You gonna drain me dry? Vammmmmpiiiiire?’ He drew out the word, sinking into the sound of it.

When he tried to pull his hand back again, he succeeded, though he stumbled back from the force. The world spun, lazy and dizzy and uncaring. Anders was back in the arms of the jacket. 

‘You shouldn’t tease if you don’t know what you’re asking for.’ The voice was low, gravel in the night. ‘You don’t know where I’ve been tonight.’

Anders laughed. ‘All nights are the same. We think going is important, but it isn’t. It’s just…’ He tangled his fingers together in front of his face, twining them together before pulling them apart.

‘I killed twenty people in a train car.’

‘Too bad there isn’t room for one more at a night club!’ Anders said. He was floating. The sea-current floor had given way to something else. The waves had traveled, they were living in the jacket, the way that it was pulling in breath. Anders could hear it, some low growl that somehow made it through the pounding music.

The jacket moved. Sharp pain flared in his neck...then bliss.

  
Then darkness. 

**Author's Note:**

> Er... If you'd like to yell at me about my apparent new-found tendency towards having Mitchell murder Anders, please feel free to come yell at me tumblr [over here](http://taupefox59.tumblr.com/) on my tumblr! ;)


End file.
